


From The Beginning, Then

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorable Sherlock, BAMF John Watson, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Episode: s01e02 The Blind Banker, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Evil Mary, Fix-It of Sorts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It's a little like Groundhog Day, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Or was it all in John's head?, Platonic bed sharing, Season/Series 01, Tarmac Hell, time travel?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-08-30 12:32:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8533222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Just when John Watson thinks he's lost the love of his life forever, he finds himself back in Hyde Park on January 28, 2010, but with all his memories of the next four years. Is this a second chance for John? Can he fix his past mistakes and find happily ever after with Sherlock Holmes?





	1. There Is Nothing New Under The Sun

“To the very best of times, John,” he said with a sad smile and a firm handshake, then turned and headed for the jet. John fought the tears welling up in his eyes as the most dear person in the world to him was about to walk out of his life forever.

_ No, dammit, NO! _ John cursed himself furiously.  _ I just got you back, they can't take you away from me again-! _

“John! John Watson!”

John turned at the sound of his name being called, and beheld a cheerful, chubby man in a bright striped tie and spectacles coming toward him. He was suddenly standing in Hyde Park.

John blinked in confusion. Where was Mycroft and Mary? And...the tarmac? John looked back over his shoulder, but the setting behind him had changed too.  _ Where was the ruddy plane? _

“Stamford. Mike Stamford,” said John’s old buddy. “We were at Bart’s-”

“What's going on?” said John in confusion.

“Er, well, uh, I'm teaching now, actually. I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at.” Mike gestured toward John’s right hip.

“What?” John looked down to see he wearing different clothes then he had been a moment ago. In his right hand he was clutching a cane. “Oh no, no, no...Sherlock-” 

John seemed to be having the weirdest episode of deja vu ever.

“‘Sherlock’?” said Mike. “You don't happen to mean Sherlock  _ Holmes _ , do you?”

“He was just here-”

“Small world. He messes around at the labs at Bart’s sometimes. That's where I'm teaching nowadays. He's up there right now, doing some experiment on bruising of corpses-”

“I need to see him, Mike!” John exclaimed, gripping his arms. “Something weird’s going on, and Sherlock Holmes is the only one who can help me.”

“Yeah, alright, alright!” said Mike, taken aback. He patted John on the shoulder concernedly. “Poor bugger - the war wasn't good to you, was it?”

* * *

Five minutes later, they were at Bart’s, and John was staring through a window in disbelief.

Sherlock Holmes, just as John remembered him that fateful day they'd met, vigorously beating a corpse with a riding crop.

A young woman in a lab coat had appeared beside them. “He’s...intense, isn't he?” Molly Hooper said, gazing at Sherlock, infatuated.

“Yeah,” John muttered.  _ Holy... _

The man who was to be John’s best friend put down the riding crop, then studied the body, taking some notes on a pad.

“I'm Molly, by the way,” said the coroner. As if John didn't know one of his closest friends.

John spared her a smile. “Hello, Molly. I'm John.”

“Are you a friend of Sherlock's?” Molly asked.

John looked longingly through the glass. “Let's just say...I know him.”

Sherlock slipped his pencil and notebook into his pocket and came out into the corridor. “I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man’s alibi depends on it. Text me,” Sherlock said to Molly. “I'll be upstairs.”

John licked his dry lips nervously. “Sherlock,” he called.

The detective stopped and looked back at him. “Have we met?” he asked.

John took his hands from his pockets and limped forward. He stood in front of Sherlock, opening up his body, inviting him to have a look. “Deduce me,” he said, determined.

Sherlock stared back at him, confused. Then, taking a step back, his eyes raked over John, seeing, observing, assessing.

John looked back at him, hardly believing it. His friend was so... _ young _ . But it was impossible. It had only been four years. But then, poor Sherlock had been through a lot in that short time. Coming back from his two year stint of being “dead” had put a lot of miles on his friend. And after John had proposed to Mary, it seemed to him that Sherlock had grown profoundly older - sadder - somehow. Made him softer.

Sherlock's brilliant eyes (which had looked at him so many times but never failed to send that pulse of electricity through John’s nerves) came back up to meet John’s gaze. “Left handed. Age, mid-to-late 30s, I'd estimate. Military, recently invalided, obviously. Limp, psychosomatic. Got some grey hairs, a few too many for a man of your age. Dark rings under your eyes from not sleeping well, all of which implies PTSD, which means you've got a therapist. Probably living in a bedsit now, hoping to go halves on a flat, which is why Mike brought you here. But...there’s more than that.” Sherlock stepped forward, and John involuntarily swallowed. Their faces were very close. “You look at me as if...you and I know each other. Intimately, in fact. However I've never seen you before this very moment. How is that possible?”

John took a deep breath. “Your full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he began. “You were born on January 6th, 1977. Your father’s name is Siger and your mother's name is Violet - she's a maths genius. You have an older brother named Mycroft who works for the government. The two of you don't get on, and to be fair, he is a bit of a wanker. You wanted to be a pirate when you were young, and had an Irish Setter named Redbeard, who your family had to put down. You went to Cambridge and are a graduate chemist. You're an ex-cocaine addict who's trying to quit smoking. You work as a consulting detective with Scotland Yard. You run a blog called  _ The Science of Deduction _ which, frankly, no one reads. You're a genius who can tell things about people just by picking up on small details about them. But you're unusual and blunt so not many people are nice to you. You play the violin when you’re thinking. You have a skull you call Billy who you talk to. When you're bored, you're likely to shoot bulletholes into the living room wall. You have ridiculously sensitive skin which is why you wear your pajama shirts inside out, so the tag won't scratch you. You take your coffee black with two sugars. You keep body parts in the fridge which drives me up the fucking wall. You don't take near enough good care of yourself, especially when you're on a case, going without sleep and starving yourself until I force you to eat something or go to bed. And right now, you're looking at a flat, 221B Baker Street, owned by Martha Hudson, an old client of yours who was once married to a drug lord who you made sure was executed in Florida. Shall I go on?”

Mike, Molly, and especially Sherlock, were all standing there in silence, dumbfounded.

Finally, Sherlock opened his mouth. “Who... _ are _ you?”

“I'm Doctor John Watson. You’re my best friend. And I think I've been sent back in time.”


	2. Whatever Remains Must Be The Truth

Sherlock's cheeks heated up, and his eyes flashed with sudden anger. “I don't know how you know all these things. Maybe my brother hired you as a practical joke. But you are most certainly lying. I have no friends. Certainly no _best_ friend. And even if I did, they wouldn't be insane enough to call _me_ _their_ best friend.”

“Well, I _am_ insane enough,” John insisted. “Come on, Sherlock, use your brain. Does Mycroft _really_ seem the type to play pranks? Look at me. Am I lying?”

Sherlock flusteredly admitted, “Well, _no_ , you seem quite sincere, to be honest-”

“I _am_ ,” John assured him. “Why is it the ‘best friend’ part you can't believe? Not the wibbley-wobbley, timey-wimey part?”

Sherlock looked at him as if he'd grown donkey ears. “Is that supposed to be a reference to something?”

“Yes, but never mind. Do you believe me about the time travel bit?” John said.

“Well...I suppose from a theoretical standpoint, time travel is entirely possible,” Sherlock muttered. He looked up at John through his eyelashes. “Can you prove you’re from the future?”

“Right now, the serial suicides are going on, right?” John said. “Tonight, another woman's going to die, Jennifer Wilson. Tomorrow Detective Inspector Lestrade’s going to give in and ask you to help him solve the case.”

“Wait, if you know the future...then you must know the outcome of this case,” said Sherlock excitedly. “Explain, why are all these people committing suicide?”

“Well, it's actually-”

“No, no, never mind!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Don't spoil the fun for me. I'll figure it out for myself.”

John couldn't help but grin. “Same old Sherlock. Mad as a hatter.”

Sherlock smirked. “Alright, Dr. Watson. I'll play your game. I still don't believe I am your best friend, but I'll play.”

“Here, let me give you my number...damn, I don't remember the old one. Let me check.” John dug his phone out from his coat pocket. Sure enough, it was Harry’s old phone. He gave it to Sherlock and said, “Here, you give me your phone and I’ll put my number in, and you can put yours in mine. Not that I don't remember it.” John grinned. “Just in case you need my help.”

Sherlock looked a tad incredulous. “Why would I need your help?”

John only smiled and said, “You might be surprised.”

Sherlock handed John's phone back to him, and accepted his own. “I'll keep that in mind. I have to go. Blood experiment awaiting me upstairs. Fifteen minutes, Molly.” Sherlock hurried away. Then, he stopped, looked back over his shoulder at John, and said, “By the way...has your brother been an alcoholic for long?”

John smirked and called, “Harry's my _sister_ , smart arse.”

Sherlock scowled and marched out of sight.

With a grin a mile wide, John turned around, but then saw Mike Stamford and Molly Hooper still standing there, looking aghast.

John just shrugged. “I should have mentioned: I'm not the John Watson you know. Molly, a word of advice: if you meet some guy named Jim from the IT department, _don't_ get involved with him.” John tucked his cane under his arm - he hadn't needed it for years, thanks to Sherlock. “‘Laters!’” he quoted, striding out.

* * *

John's bedsit was the same as he remembered it. Dreary, grey, abysmal. These were his belongings. That was his laptop. His dressing gown. His coffee mug. But this was not his room. This room belonged to a sad, lonely, broken man. A man untouched by Sherlock Holmes.

John was slightly worried. What if there was another John Watson hobbling about London? What if he showed up at any moment, demanding why there was a clone of him standing in his room?

But as he was in possession of his phone, his keys, his wallet, his blasted cane (which he promptly chucked in the trash), and as he was the one who met Mike in the park, John guessed he was the sole John Watson in this...reality. It was almost as if someone had pushed **REWIND** on his whole life, backing it up to that one defining moment that had changed the course of his history forever.

Which reminded John. He went over to the drawer of his desk and pulled out the loaded gun he had kept in there before meeting the amazing Sherlock Holmes. He removed the magazine. “Won't be needing you anymore,” John murmured. “Not for that anyway.”

John sat down at his computer and saw that his browser had been left open to his blog, upon which he had yet to enter anything.

John smirked to himself. _Why not?_ And he began to type.

* * *

The next day, at 7:18 PM, John received a text message.

_3 Lauriston Gardens. Brixton. Do hurry up. -SH_

John grinned.

* * *

The detective was waiting for John a few feet from the crime scene. John swaggered up, smiling knowingly.

“I see the limp’s cleared up,” said Sherlock.

“So I was right then,” said John smugly. “Do you believe I'm from the future now?”

“I'm surprised you're this chipper about a woman's death,” Sherlock commented. “Perhaps you are just mad enough to be my friend after all...but yes. Against my better judgment, I believe you.”

“A wise man once said to me, ‘eliminate the impossible and whatever's left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth’,” said John.

Sherlock smiled a little, blushing. “A wise man? Really?”

“Well...more like a wise arse.” John grinned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It's this way.”

John followed him to the tape, where a surly Sally Donovan stood. “Good evening, Sally,” smiled Sherlock pleasantly.

“‘Lo, _freak_ ,” said Sally, smirking nastily. John felt bile rising up in his chest at the insult and fought the urge to reach out and touch Sherlock's shoulder.

But if Sally had affected him in any way, Sherlock didn't let on. "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," he claimed.

"Why."

"I was invited."

"...why," Sally repeated, deliberately being intransigent.

"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock replied condescendingly.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" Sally said, reluctantly raising the tape to let him in.

Sherlock smirked at her. "Always, Sally. I even know you didn't make it home last night."

John bit back a smile, remembering Sherlock's follow up deduction.

"I don't..." Sally paused, then shook her head at looked at John. "Er, who's this?"

"Erm..." Sherlock hesitated. "He's..."

"A colleague," John finished for him. He shook Sally's hand. "John Watson."

"A colleague?" said Sally in disbelief. Her head whipped around to look at Sherlock. "How do  _you_ get a colleague?"

"Sherlock and I've worked together for several years," John said, smiling at Sherlock. Sherlock colored slightly and looked away, his eyes darted to the pavement. "I've heard a great deal about you, Sergeant Donovan."

"Well I've never seen you," said Sally.

"Look, are we going to stand around whittering on all night, or we going to solve a murder?" Sherlock said impatiently, holding up the tape so John could slip underneath.

"Thank you," said John to Sherlock, flashing Sally a smirk as he passed.

Sally exhaled in defeat and brought her walkie to her mouth. "Freak's here. Bringing him in."

"Ah, Anderson, here we are again," Sherlock sighed as he approached the forensic scientist.

Anderson scowled at him. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear," said Sherlock. Then after a slight pause, he added, "And is your wife away for long?"

John grinned behind Sherlock's back. 

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that," Anderson said scathingly.

"Your deodorant told me that," said Sherlock.

"My _deodorant_?" Anderson said incredulously. 

"It's for men." Sherlock smiled.

"Well, of course it's for men! _I'm_ wearing it!"

"So is Sergeant Donovan."

John watched both parties freeze and look at each other uneasily and had to force himself not to laugh. Looking back on this moment, the two of them really had been being dicks when all Sherlock was trying to do was help. Served them right.

Sherlock pretended to sniff. "Ooh... and I think it just vaporised. May I go in?"

"Now look, whatever you're trying to imply," Anderson babbled nervously.

"I'm not implying anything, I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over," Sherlock said conversationally as he headed inside. Then he stopped and added, "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her _knees_."

John finally did laugh out loud at that one. Sally and Anderson shot him a heated glare. John shrugged, smirking, and followed the madman inside.


	3. The Clever Detective In The Funny Hat

Lestrade gave John a funny look as he trailed in behind Sherlock. "Who's this?" he inquired.

"He's with me," said Sherlock curtly as John slipped into a blue sterile suit.

"But who is he?" Lestrade repeated insistently. It was so odd to John to be looked at by everyone he'd known for the past four years of his life and not have them know him.

"I said he's with me," Sherlock said firmly, pushing past him and starting up the long, winding staircase.

John sighed and began the long climb. He was  _so_ glad he didn't have his limp this time around.

Jennifer Wilson's dead body, clothed in all pink, was waiting for them when they arrived at the top. John felt a slight churning in his stomach. He'd known this was going to happen. Should he have tried to prevent it?

"You couldn't have stopped this," Sherlock whispered to him, like he knew exactly what John was thinking.

John exhaled, somewhat upset, but nodded slightly. He knew Sherlock as right, but he still felt responsible.

At least he knew after tonight, Jeff Hope wouldn't hurt anyone else.

"Shut up," said Sherlock aloud, and John realized now he was talking to Lestrade.

Lestrade seemed confused by this as well. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking. It's annoying." Sherlock swept over the body, investigating every inch.  _Like a trained bloodhound_ , John couldn't help but think again. Sherlock inspected the woman's coat, pocket umbrella, jewelry, the back of her legs, the shaky etching of ''R-A-C-H-E" in the wood of the floor, taking in every tiny detail.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked as the detective stood up.

"Not much," said Sherlock, and John knew he was lying. Or being modest. Which was unlikely, since it was Sherlock.

"She's German," said Anderson from the doorway. " _Rache_ ," he explained. "It's German for revenge."

"Or she was writing 'Rachel'," said John, peering at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock offered him a tiny smirk. John winked.

Anderson harrumphed. "Well my idea's just as plausible as yours."

"John's right," said Sherlock. "She's not German. She is from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night..." Sherlock consulted his phone briefly. "Before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

"What about the message, though?" Lestrade said. "Who's Rachel?"

"Don't know. Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Ahh...dunno," lied John. "Could be a family member, maybe a sister, maybe a daughter."

"Very helpful, but I was referring to the body," said Sherlock. "You're a medical man."

"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside," Lestrade protested.

"They won't work with me," Sherlock pointed out.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here," Lestrade griped.

"Yes, because you need me," said Sherlock brusquely.

Lestrade glared at him, then finally sighed in defeat. "Yes, I do. God help me."

Sherlock looked at John. "Doctor Watson."

John looked at Lestrade questioningly. "May I?"

Lestrade exhaled exasperatedly. "Oh, do as he says. Help yourself." Lestrade turned to his forensic scientist, who was still standing in the doorway. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes." He went outside and shut the door, leaving the doctor and the detective alone.

Sherlock looked up at John expectantly. "Okay. How'd she die?"

"Poison. In pill form," answered John.

"People don't buy 'poison' pills just to kill themselves," said Sherlock.

John lifted his eyebrows, waiting.

The gears in Sherlock's head turned. "But they might...to kill someone else," said the detective, his eyes flashing in realization.

John smiled.

"This is murder. Serial murder," Sherlock continued. "But she definitely took the pill herself. There's no sign of a struggle. How could someone  _make_ someone kill themself?"

John bit his lip, thinking about that awful day Sherlock jumped from the roof of Bart's. How indeed.

"And what about Rachel?" said Sherlock, still thinking aloud, speaking more to himself than to John. "Who is she?"

"Sherlock, two minutes, I said," said Lestrade, coming back in. "I need anything you've got."

Sherlock stood up. "Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?"

"Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, saying, "Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up-"

"Her wedding ring," said Sherlock impatiently. "Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside; that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what, or rather,  _who_ , does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

John stared at him, unable him to stay silent. "You're amazing," he said softly.

Sherlock looked at him, alarmed. He stammered slightly. "I-I beg your pardon?" he asked, cheeks turning a soft shade of rose.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. John could practically read his thoughts: _get a room, you two_. "Cardiff?" asked the detective inspector.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" said Sherlock, still giving John a funny look out of the corner of his eye.

Lestrade shrugged. He too looked at the doctor. "Is it obvious to _you_?" he inquired incredulously.

John just smiled enigmatically.

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "Her coat - it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused. Not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" Sherlock showed Lestrade the weather report on his mobile. "Cardiff."

"Yes! Brilliant!" John cheered.

Sherlock's cheeks heated up more. "Do you know do that out loud?" he asked.

John smiled. "Sorry, I'll shut up."

"No, it's..." Sherlock seemed to burrow into his popped collar, hiding his flushed cheeks. "...fine."

 _He's **flustered**_ , John realized.  _I made **Sherlock Holmes** blush. Did that happen the first time? Did I just not notice? No, I'm sure it's just a fluke. Damn, he's bloody **cute** when he's embarrassed._

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade asked insistently.

Sherlock pointed at Jennifer Wilson's body. "Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious, could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night. Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade reported.

Sherlock froze. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."

Sherlock stood there for a moment, thinking. Then he threw the door open, rushing out into the corridor. "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

The officers looked at him, bewildered. "Sherlock, there was no case!" Lestrade insisted, following him.

"But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, yeah, thanks," grumbled Lestrade sarcastically. "And...?"

"It's murder, all of them," Sherlock declared, trotting down the stairs. "I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings, _serial_ killings." Sherlock grinned a bit. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade demanded from the top of the stairs.

Sherlock's eyes flitted up to John for a microsecond, then back to Lestrade. "Her _case_! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case. So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

"But how will we ever find it?" said Lestrade.

Sherlock smiled at John. "I have a way. Lestrade, give Doctor Watson and me several hours and we'll have your killer. You lot get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel! Come on, John, there's not a moment to lose!"

"Right behind you," John replied, hurrying behind Sherlock, down the stairs and out the door, discarding his suit in a bin.

Sally cast them a scathing look as they left the scene. "Alright. Where is the case? The murderer doesn't have it, he'd've disposed of it by now, so what's he done with it?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm...not exactly sure," said John. "All I know is that you found it somewhere in a pile of rubbish, somewhere in this area. Erm, you probably already know this, but the suitcase is pink too, like the victim's clothes."

"Of course! That makes perfect sense. Thank you, John. It might be a clue. We need to locate it," said Sherlock. "Shall we split up?"

John was hesitant. Splitting up always seemed to get them in trouble. What if Sherlock got into danger? "Alright," he said reluctantly. "I'll get a cab. Meet you at Baker Street, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded. He turned to go, then paused. "Back there, at the crime scene. Why were you saying those things about me?" he asked, almost shyly.

John bit his lip. "Because...they were true," he finally said. "You're the most extraordinary person I've ever met."

Sherlock blinked at him several times. "But...you already know all my methods," he said. "You must be used to them by now. Most people aren't impressed with me. Most of the time they just tell me to piss off."

"Well..." said John slowly. "I'm not most people." He smiled.

Sherlock looked rather gobsmacked. "Right. I suppose you're not." He offered John a tiny smile. "See you in 15 minutes. Tell Mrs. Hudson you're my new flatshare. I assume we lived together in your timeline anyway?" John nodded. "Right. Good. See you then." He turned and strode away.

John watched him walk away, then began heading up toward the main road. The cool, wet night air felt good on his warm cheeks. Was he coming down with a fever? Maybe that explained all this that had happened.

 _I feel a bit like Bill Murray - the actor, not my mate from the army. But no one would ever believe me_ , John quipped to himself. Then something told him to look back and up. So he did. John's eyes widened and his mouth hung open slightly. "Wow..."

Sherlock was standing atop a tall building, surveying the scene below him, searching for the case. His silhouette, his coat and curls whipping in the wind, was framed against the big full moon. It was like something out of that 1980s _Batman_ movie with Michael Keaton. All he needed was the cowl.  _Well he is the world's greatest detective_ , John mused.

The doctor was so transfixed, he didn't even notice a black car pulling up to the curb beside him. "Can we offer you a ride, Doctor Watson?" asked a female voice as large brown eyes peered out at him from the barely open rear window.

 _Oh yeah...forgot this bit._ "Sure," said John cheekily, getting into the car and sliding inside. "Take me to your leader," he said as the car pulled away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I added in the Batman scene from the gay pilot! XD Oh, John. You are so in love. Just realize it, you idiot. Meanwhile, Sherlock's dying, like, 'why is this hot army doctor from the future flirting with me?'
> 
> Thanks for the comments, guys. Keep 'em comin'.
> 
> Transcript of ASiP: http://transcripts.foreverdreaming.org/viewtopic.php?f=51&t=7715


	4. The Most Dangerous Man You've Ever Met

Mycroft's forehead wrinkled in slight confusion as John got out of the car. "Your limp's cleared up," he remarked.

John smiled calmly, approaching with his hands in his pockets. "So what? No fancy tricks with cameras or telephone booths? I'm a bit disappointed; you Holmes boys are usually so theatrical."

"Yes, I'd been told of your rather omniscient gifts," said Mycroft, and John could tell he was trying to keep his usual cool composure, but he was visibly unnerved by John. "So we decided the direct approach would be best."

John smirked. "Let's make this fast. I know who you are. Yes, I am Sherlock's friend, whether or not he believes it yet. No, I don't plan on betraying him or leaving him alone unless he tells me to go away. And no amount of money's going to convince me to spy on him."

"Well, you have all the answers, don't you?" said Mycroft haughtily.

"Yep," said John confidently. "So you might as well let me get back to Sherlock, because he's no doubt found the suitcase by now."

"I can have you arrested, you know," Mycroft threatened.

"I haven't done anything," laughed John derisively.

"I'll make something up to tell the authorities."

"Look,  _Myc_ ," said John flippantly, taking the chair, swiveling it around and sitting on it backward. "You have no idea what I've lived through. Abusive father, war, injury, loss. I watched the most important person in my life pitch himself from a tall building, right before my very eyes. I've been to hell and back in a hand basket. And I'm still here. I've had every reason to walk away from Sherlock Holmes and yet, here I am. Standing with him. I always have, I always will. I've known true fear." John slowly stood up, stepped into Mycroft's space, and drew himself up fully to his very intimidating height of 5'7. "And you are the least scary thing on this planet."

Mycroft swallowed. "Who are you?" he whispered.

John smiled and stepped back. "I'm no one. Just a bloke...who's chosen a side."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him, studying him for a second. "I don't understand you - yet - but if my baby brother gets hurt because of you, there shan't be a snowball's chance in hell for you, Doctor Watson. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly," said John. "And you understand the same applies to you." He eyed the eldest Holmes meaningfully, then turned on his heel and marched to the car. "221B Baker Street, please," he said to Anthea.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson opened the front door to him. "Hello! You must be Doctor Watson. Sherlock told me about you."

"Yes, hello, Mrs. Hudson," said John, unable to stop himself from hugging her. He was just so glad to see her.

Mrs. Hudson let out a surprised noise, but gladly hugged him back. "Goodness! I'm so happy Sherlock's made such an affectionate friend. He's upstairs, dear. I'll show you up."

Sherlock was lying on the couch, applying his three nicotine patches when John came in. "There you are, where the hell have you been?" he inquired.

John shrugged nonchalantly. "Your brother kidnapped me."

Sherlock groaned. "Mycroft..."

"Yeah, wanted to bully me away from you, offer me money to spy on you, blah blah blah. I politely told him to piss off." John grinned. "Think I actually scared him. You should've been there, it was great."

Sherlock smiled up at him. "I'd have loved to have seen that...but we have work to do," he said, turning serious again.

John eyed the pink suitcase sitting across the room. "Found it, then."

"Yes, with your help. Not that I wouldn't have found it eventually."

"Of course," said John with a smile. "So now what? We lay a trap for him, right? He's got Jennifer's phone, so we text him pretending to be her, right?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "So it's a man, then."

"Oh. Well, yeah. Sorry. Kind of slipped out."

"S'fine," said Sherlock carelessly. "You only confirmed my suspicions anyhow. But no more hints unless I ask, alright?"

"Whatever you want." John pulled out his phone. "I'll text him. Give me the number."

Sherlock did so, then dictated the message. John hit send and they waited. Predictably, a moment later, the phone began to ring.

Sherlock and John grinned at each other in tandem. "Bingo."

"Come with me," said Sherlock, hopping to his feet to pull on his coat and scarf. "The game, John, is on!"


	5. I'm (Not) His Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Angelo's scene! I've been looking forward to this one :>

"Sherlock!" said Angelo cheerfully as the two men sat down at their table in front of the window. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you and for your date."

Sherlock looked at John. "Do you want to eat?" he asked.

"Um, maybe just some bread," said John, knowing they wouldn't be there long enough to eat anything anyway.

"Sure," said Angelo graciously. "You know, this man got me off a murder charge."

"I know, Sherlock told me," John half-lied, smiling at his friend.

"He cleared my name!" Angelo beamed at Sherlock.

"Eh, I cleared it a bit," said Sherlock. "You were still convicted for carjacking."

"If it weren't for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You _did_ go to prison."

"I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic," said Angelo, sauntering away.

John sipped his water. "After this, though, we _are_ going to get some real food. You too."

"Eating. Boring," sighed Sherlock.

"Too bad," said John. He nervously traced the rim of his glass with his finger. "Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

John flicked some water at him. "What Angelo said. About me being your date. Did that...bother you?"

Sherlock eyed him curiously. "No. Did it bother you?"

"No, not at all. Believe me, I'm used to people thinking I'm your...whatever," said John, blushing. "I just wondered if it bothered you. You've never told me one way or another."

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't really care what other people think of me. It's not important."

"Yeah. Guess you're right." John twiddled his thumbs, unsure how to ask his next question. "Um...Sherlock. Not that it matters to me one way or the other, obviously, but...do you like women or men? Or both? Or at all? I mean...are you attracted to people. Romantically...sexually." His blush deepened.

Sherlock seemed to freeze. "I...I would think, being my friend, you would already know about my proclivities."

"Well, the topic's kind of come up before, but you never give me a straight answer."

Sherlock snorted. "Well the answer to that question's not straight."

"Oh! So you're..."

Sherlock sighed. "Not that matters, but yes. I'm gay."

That answered so many questions about Irene Adler.

"But I very rarely find anyone attractive, so it's sort of irrelevant," continued Sherlock, watching John out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah, no, of course. I've just always wondered," said John.

"Why?"

"Because..." John could feel his ears and cheeks burning, and knew he had to be bright red. "Because I think it's something _friends_ should know about each other."

"Okay. What's your sexual orientation, John?"

 _Walked right into that trap, Watson_. "I'm..." John sighed, tired of having had to hide and fib all these years. "I guess I'm bisexual? I mean, I usually date women, but I'm attracted to men too. If we're being totally honest. I have... _been_ with a man before," he added, thinking of James.

"You don't act on your attraction to your own gender because you're not comfortable with your own identity yet," Sherlock assessed.

John flushed even harder. "No! It's not that, I just..." He trailed off, having no defense for himself. Sherlock was right.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, John," said Sherlock, sounding surprisingly understanding. "You don't have to date men just to validate your sexuality. If you want to be with one, you should be allowed to be with one, but if you don't feel comfortable, you shouldn't have to."

John blinked. "That...thank you. That's...surprisingly understanding of you."

"Understanding is part of my job description. I'm just normally not very nice about it," Sherlock admitted, staring out the window.

"Well..." John placed a hand on Sherlock's wrist. "Thank you. For being kind to me."

Sherlock looked into his eyes, his gaze holding. John suddenly found he couldn't breathe.

Bloody hell. What was he doing? This was _Sherlock_ for Christ's sake. Unreachable, untouchable Sherlock, the great supergenius. And John was just...John.

John sighed and pulled his hand away. "I'm sorry. I can't do this. I'm... _married_." He said the word as if he was divulging that he had credit card debt or had been diagnosed with genital herpes.

Sherlock seemed to visibly shrink as he heard this news. "Oh," he said softly.

"Well, not yet, technically," John said. "I don't meet her until after...never mind. But as it turns out, it was - will be - the worst mistake of my life, because she turned out to be an evil psychopath who tried - will try - to murder the person I'm  _really_ in love with. And it's all my fault because I'm just a stupid, bloody coward. I found the Holy Grail and I discarded it for a Dixie cup. I had a chance at real happiness and I threw it away because I was scared."

"John, that must be impossible," said Sherlock ardently. "I haven't known you for very long, but you're one of the bravest people I've ever met. You can't blame yourself."

John shook his head. "If I just had tried to listen, to talk to...this person...maybe things could have worked out differently. We could be happy together. But instead, I let...this person...slip through my fingers."

Sherlock bit his lip. "Maybe this time it's different."

John looked up at him. "What?"

"You say you've been sent back in time, right?"

"Something like that. More like someone hit the reset button on my life."

"Maybe it's a second chance," said Sherlock. "John, I can't explain what's happened to you - I don't even know if it's real, to be perfectly honest - but it sounds like you have regrets. Maybe, though I am very loathe to believe in the metaphysical, the universe has given you a second chance to not make those mistakes again."

John stared at him, speechless as his mind raced. _Could he be right? Is this my second chance? Is there even the slightest possibility Sherlock Holmes could ever want to be with me?_

"Shit," said Sherlock, peering out the window. "There's a taxi stopped outside, but no one's getting in or out...it's him. Come on, John, it's pulling away!" He leapt from the table and dashed outside, John dutifully following after.

Together they raced through the streets of London, speeding to cut off the taxi. Sherlock darted out in front of the cab and forced it to stop. "Police, open 'er up!" Sherlock demanded, flashing Lestrade's nicked badge. He pried open the rear door and began interrogating the passenger.

John hung back, biting his lip. He _knew_ Sherlock was targeting the wrong man in the car, but Sherlock had requested that John not give away the solution. Sherlock figured out quickly that the tourist riding in the back seat wasn't the killer and let the taxi pull away. John sighed, watching it drive off.

Sherlock trounced back over to John, looking mildly annoyed. "Why didn't you tell me it wasn't him?"

"Cause you said not to," John replied.

Sherlock sighed. "You're right. I did say no more help unless I asked specifically." He nodded. "Let's go back to Baker Street."


	6. We're Going To Need To Coordinate

They came back to 221B, giggly and out of breath. "Damn," sighed John, panting slightly. "Second time around and that's still as ridiculous as I remember."

"And you still came back for a second helping," Sherlock chuckled.

John grinned up at him. "Well, it's like you told me once - just the two of us against the rest of the world."

Sherlock shyly peered at him out of the corner of his eye, his cheeks coloring a bit. John could have kissed him.

"Sherlock..." Mrs. Hudson was coming down the stairs, looking harried. "What have you done?" she inquired.

"Mrs Hudson?" said Sherlock curiously.

"Upstairs." Mrs. Hudson pointed toward their apartment.

"Oh, bugger," muttered John.

Sherlock looked at him. "What is it?"

John groaned. "Lestrade. Drugs raid. He wanted to get to the suitcase."

Sherlock's eyes widened momentarily, then narrowed. He turned to tromp upstairs. John reluctantly followed him.

"What are you doing?" demanded Sherlock as he burst in. The apartment was crawling with officers.

Lestrade was reclined on Sherlock's chair by the fireplace, slightly smirking. "Well, I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid."

"You can't just break into my flat," growled Sherlock.

"And you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't break into your flat," Lestrade shot back.

"Oh no, right, you just staged a bogus drugs bust to get at the case," Sherlock spat. "I'm not your sniffer dog!"

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog," Lestrade agreed, pointing into the kitchen.

"Anders..." Sherlock whipped to look in the kitchen, where the forensic scientist was pulling his head out of the fridge. "Anderson, what are you doing on a drugs bust?" Sherlock snapped.

"Oh, I volunteered," smirked Anderson.

"They all did. They're not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they're very keen," said Lestrade.

Donovan held up a small Tupperware bin, wrinkling her nose slightly. "Are these _human_ eyes?"

"Put those back!" Sherlock yelped.

"They were in the microwave."

"It's an experiment."

"Keep looking, guys," Lestrade instructed. He turned an eye to the fuming consulting detective. "Or you could help us properly and I'll stand them down."

"This is childish," Sherlock hissed.

"Well, I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?"

"Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to _bully_ me?" Sherlock stuttered.

"It stops being pretend if they find anything," Lestrade said sternly.

"I am _clean_!" Sherlock shouted.

"Is your flat? All of it?"

"I don't even smoke," Sherlock claimed, showing the inspector his nicotine-patched arm.

Lestrade rolled up his sleeve to reveal a likewise patch. "Neither do I. So let's work together. We've found Rachel."

"Who is she?" Sherlock asked.

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter," Lestrade answered.

Sherlock looked briefly at John, then said to Lestrade, "Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Never mind that, we found the case!" Anderson pointed out. "According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it..." He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "...in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson," said Sherlock, glaring back at him. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." Then Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her."

"She's dead," Lestrade reported.

"Excellent! How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be."

"Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years," said Lestrade. "Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

Sherlock paused. "No, that's... that's not right. How...why would she do that? Why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yep, sociopath, seeing it now," Anderson muttered.

"She didn't think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt." Sherlock looked at John. "If _you_ were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?"

John looked straight at him. He knew exactly what he'd say. "You were the best, and the wisest man that I have ever known. And yes, of course I forgive you."

Sherlock blinked rapidly several times, blank. "Why would you say that?"

John just pursed his lips together.

Sherlock shook his head. "Doesn't matter. If you were clever, really clever...Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers, _she_ was clever. She's trying to tell us something."

"Isn't the doorbell working?" Mrs. Hudson asked, coming in. "Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

John tensed. The killer. He was here.

"I didn't order a taxi, go away," Sherlock snapped.

"Oh, dear. They're making such a mess," said Mrs. Hudson, looking around fretfully. "What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson," John replied.

"But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers-"

" _SHUT UP_ , everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe, I'm trying to think!" Sherlock hollered, roughing up his curls in frustration. "Anderson, face the other way, you're putting me off."

"What? My face is?!" Anderson whined.

Lestrade sighed. "Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back."

"Oh, for God's sake-"

"Your back, now, please!" Lestrade shouted at him. Grumbling, Anderson did as he was told.

"Come on, think. Quick!" Sherlock muttered furiously to himself.

"What about your taxi?"

" _MRS. HUDSON-!_ " Sherlock froze suddenly in realization. "Oh..." Sherlock began laughing triumphantly. "She was clever, clever, yes!" Sherlock whirled around to grin at the busting party. "She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead!"

The police stared him in bewilderment. "Do you see, do you get it?" Sherlock said. "She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Lestrade asked.

"What do you mean, how?" said Sherlock, mystified that the mere mortals around him weren't catching on as fast. "Rachel!...Don't you see? _Rachel!_ " Sherlock laughed at the blank faces around him. "Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing...Rachel is not a name." He pointed at John. "John, on the luggage, there's a label. Email address." 

John dutifully went over and read the address from the tag. "'jennie.pink@mephone.org.uk.'"

"Oh, I've been too slow," said Sherlock. "She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her _phone_ , so it's a smartphone, it's email enabled. So there was a website for her account. The username is her email address..." Sherlock entered in the address on his computer on the site. "...and all together now, the password is?"

"Rachel," John declared.

"So we can read her emails. So what?" said Anderson, turning back around.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street," Sherlock said in exasperation. "We can do much more than just read her emails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it, you can locate it online...she's leading us directly to the man who killed her." Sherlock clicked away at the screen.

"Unless he got rid of it," Lestrade pointed out.

"We know he didn't," said John.

"Come on, come on! Quickly!" Sherlock said, jumping up in excitement.

"Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver..."

"Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your _evening soother_?" Sherlock looked at Lestrade. "We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter. We're gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won't last forever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name."

"It's a start!" Sherlock declared.

The screen showed John what he already knew: that the killer was already here. "Sherlock..."

"It narrows it down from just anyone in London," Sherlock babbled on, not listening. "It's the first proper lead that we've had."

"Sherlock," said John again.

"What is it? Quickly, where?" Sherlock said, hopping toward him and poking his head over John's shoulder.

John's head swam slightly. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his heartrate picked up. He could smell Angelo's Italian cooking and the faintest hint of rubbish from earlier but mostly he could smell  _Sherlock_ , and he was absolutely mouthwatering. The detective's breath was warm and slightly wet on his neck. Was he doing this on purpose? John cleared his throat. "It's here. It's in 221 Baker Street."

"How can it be here? How?" Sherlock wondered aloud. 

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere," suggested Lestrade.

"What, and I didn't notice it?" Sherlock retorted. " _Me?_ _I_ didn't notice?"

"Anyway, we texted him and he called back," John added.

"Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim," Lestrade said, turning to his men.

"Who do we trust, even if we don't know them?" Sherlock muttered furiously to John. "Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

"Come on, Sherlock," John whispered back. "You did it before it, you can do it again."

Sherlock turned to stare at him. Their faces were very close. "You really have that much faith in me?"

John nodded imperceptibly, but firmly. "I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing temptingly. _God_ , John wanted to kiss him.

The spell was broken when Sherlock's phone chirped. Text alert. Sherlock pulled back, looking shaken, pulled out his phone. He read the message, then looked at John. "I have to go."

John nodded. "I'll be right behind you."

"Sherlock?" said Lestrade. "Where are you going?"

"Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long..." Sherlock, in a daze, grabbed his coat and scarf before leaving.

Lestrade looked at John quizzically, but John just shrugged.

He would wait. Ten - no, _eight_ \- minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my birthday, I'm giving you all the gift of another chapter. Dat sexual tension doe! ASiP should be done in the next update :)


	7. Friends Protect Each Other

Roland-Kerr Further Education College.

John had made his excuses to Lestrade, hinting to him to use the website to track the cell phone, then hailed a taxi to take him there.

John got out of the car, gun concealed in the back of his trousers, paid the cabbie, and sped into the building on the right. Not the left. He wasn't making that mistake again.

With any luck, no one else had to die tonight.

John dashed through the building and up to the fourth floor. His heart was pounding and his breath was quick, but John was so glad he was in his fresh out of the army 37-year-old body instead of his Mrs. Hudson fed 41-year-old body. He was in much better shape.

He tore through the corridor till he found the roomy study hall. He froze at the tiny circular window in the door. Hope had the pill at his lips - Sherlock was mirroring his movements-

" _Sherlock, no!_ " John screamed, bursting in through the door, gun aimed at the killer.

Sherlock dropped the pill immediately, as if broken out of a trance. Hope looked startled. "What the hell-"

"The police are on their way," said John. "You're going to prison, Mr. Hope." He twitched his gun threateningly. "I killed you in another timeline. Don't think for a second I won't do it again if I have to."

"Thank you, John," said Sherlock, standing up beside him. He looked at Hope. "You never answered my query. What is the name of your sponsor? My  _fan_."

John's stomach turned.

"You think I'm gonna tell you?" said Hope incredulously. "He'd have me killed. He has power, friends in high places, even behind bars."

"You're already dying," said Sherlock. "You might as well tell us."

"No," continued Hope. "He'd go after my kids. I'm not tellin' you a thing."

"Moriarty," John whispered.

Sherlock blinked at him. "What?"

"It's his name. Moriarty." John's lip curled in hatred at the very mention of the name of the man who'd kept him from the love of his life.

"Moriarty..."

John could tell Sherlock had more questions, but then, Lestrade and his officers were bursting in to take Jeff away, and the matter was put aside for the moment.

* * *

"Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting these blankets on us," Sherlock complained to Lestrade as he and John leaned side by side against Lestrade's squad car, swaddled in matching ugly orange afghans.

"Yeah, it's for shock," Lestrade answered.

"But we're not in shock," Sherlock whined.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs."

Sherlock sighed. John just giggled.

Lestrade eyed the doctor suspiciously. "That firearm - army grade? It's not registered, is it."

"Ah..." John blinked awkwardly.

Lestrade smiled just a little. "I'll forget what I saw -  _this_ time. But no more acts of vigilantism, Doctor Watson. Someone could have gotten killed."

John and Sherlock looked at each other briefly, then back at the inspector. "We'll behave," John promised.

Lestrade barked a laugh. "Somehow, I don't believe you. Alright, go home, you two. But I want both of you in my office at 10 am tomorrow to give your statements."

"G'night, Lestrade," grinned Sherlock, unwrapping the blanket from his shoulders and dumping it into his arms. John followed suit.

John shoved his hands in his pockets as they strolled down the street together. "So you really killed him the first time?" Sherlock asked.

"Yep," said John. "Didn't go into the right building the first time. Had to act fast. Shot him through the window."

"Must have been quite a shot," said Sherlock, sounding rather impressed. "Still, good thing you didn't make the same mistake twice...but why would you kill someone...just for me? After only knowing me one day?"

They'd stopped in the middle of the street. Sherlock was staring at him, studying him. Deeply.

John bit his lip. Why not be truthful this time? "I've seen men die before - good men, friends of mine. Thought I'd never sleep again..."

He trailed off, remembering not only his mates from the army, but also Sherlock pitching himself from atop Bart's, and then lying on the floor of Magnussen's office with Mary's bullet lodged in his chest.

He met Sherlock's eyes. "I'll sleep fine tonight," he said.

Sherlock smiled softly. "Quite right," he whispered.

John tilted his head to one side. "Were you  _really_ going to take that pill?" he asked.

Sherlock paused. "No," he answered, and this time John could tell he wasn't posturing.

"Why not?"

Sherlock licked his lips, almost shyly. "I was tired of living," he admitted. John gasped quietly. "I was all alone. Nothing could make me  _feel_ anymore. I thought, what's the point of it all? No one would miss me anyway...then I got a mystery to solve."

"What, the suicides?"

"No. You." Sherlock smiled at him gently. Then he smirked a little. "Obviously."

John laughed softly. "You're an idiot."

They continued to gaze at each other. It made even more butterflies flap about in John's belly than the first time.

Sherlock bit his lower lip. "Dinner?" he asked.

"Starving," John replied, falling back into step beside him.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese that stays open 'til two," Sherlock said as they walked along. "You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

John grinned, then looked up the street where Mycroft Holmes was standing in the shadows beside his car with his lackey Anthea. "Uh oh. Older _bother_  alert."

Sherlock looked up too and caught sight of the elder Holmes sibling. He growled in annoyance. "What's he want now?"

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited...though that's never really your motivation, is it?" said Mycroft smarmily as they approached.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'," said Sherlock, jerking a thumb toward John.

John just smiled pleasantly. "Evening, Myc. Nice to see you again."

Mycroft squinted distrustfully at him. "Sherlock, has it occured to you that this man just may not be what he seems?"

Sherlock puffed out his bird-thin chest. "He's my  _friend_ , Mycroft. Something you'll never know anything about."

Mycroft tutted. "Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no."

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer...and you know how it always upset Mummy."

" _I_ upset her? _Me?_  It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

John rolled his eyes. "Alright, girls, that's enough family feuding for one night. Now, to my certain knowledge, this man hasn’t eaten for several days. So what he’s gonna do right now is have dinner."

Mycroft squinted at him. "And who are you to decide that?"

John glanced at Sherlock, then looked back at Mycroft. "I’m his doctor," he answered firmly.

"And only a fool argues with his doctor," Sherlock said. John smiled at him out of the corner of his eye.

Mycroft snorted. "I don't know what this... _goldfish_ has done to turn you into a doddering puppy, brother mine, but make no mistake, I shall be keeping a watchful eye on the situation."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, blushing profusely. "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home - you know what it does for the traffic." He tugged John away by the arm forcibly, John laughing all the while.

"So, dim sum?" said John once they were out of earshot.

"Mm. I can always predict the fortune ccokies."

"I already know what mine says."

"Cheater."

"Jealous?"

"Shut up."

"Hah."

Sherlock looked at John and smiled in spite of himself. John grinned right back.

* * *

"They are in the very wrath of love, and they will together. Clubs cannot part them." - Rosalind,  _As You Like It_ (5.2.40)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave a lecture on the life of William Shakespeare this week for my college's Scholar Day, so I couldn't resist ending with that quote. Also, I love the Gay Pilot, can you tell?
> 
> Anyway, that's A Study In Pink! There'll be a brief domestic interlude, then we'll delve into The Blind Banker. Thanks for reading! ^_^


	8. Let's Have Dinner

John popped a won ton in his mouth. "So really, why did you decide to just trust me? S'not the Sherlock Holmes I know."

"Well..." said Sherlock, more pushing his chow mein and chicken with cashews around his plate than actually eating. "At first, I didn't. I let you think I did because I wanted to know what your game was. I told you, at first, I thought you were some practical joke my brother was playing on me."

"Which would never happen because your brother has no sense of humor," said John, smiling.

"And then I thought you might be the murderer."

John choked on a mouthful of chicken. "Well...I guess that's not an entirely ridiculous assumption to make."

"You did know when the murder was going to happen before it actually happened."

"Fair enough." John carefully swallowed some water. "And then?"

"And then...well, I thought you might be just a crazy fan."

"Well, I am a bit mad. As we've already established," John teased.

Sherlock smiled. "But finally I realized you must be telling the truth. No matter how impossible it seems."

" _The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe_ ," said John.

"Hmm?" said Sherlock in confusion.

"It's a children's book, and a bloody good one. The littlest sister of these four children finds a magical world inside a wardrobe, but her older brother and sister don't believe her. Their wise old professor friend tells them that there are only three possible options: that she's lying, that she's mad, or that she's telling the truth. Clever you figured out I'm not lying-"

"-and while I definitely believe you are mad, insanity doesn't grant one foreknowledge of the future-"

"So I must be telling the truth," John finished.

Sherlock's lips twitched, thinking. "And speaking of crazy fans...Moriarty. Who is he? Or what is he?"

"You want to know?" said John.

"Yes. Not everything, just need-to-know information."

John breathed in shakily. "Okay. His full name is James Moriarty. He sort of does what you do, except instead of solving crimes, he commits them."

"Consulting criminal," breathed Sherlock.

"Yeah," said John. "And apparently when you were a youngin', he killed someone, this kid, and made it look like he'd had some kind of episode while he was swimming, and you figured it out. But the police never listened to you."

Sherlock's eyebrows wrinkled. "Carl Powers?" he gasped.

"Yeah, that was it. So Moriarty's been interested in you ever since. He's a supergenius, like you, but he's a total psychopath."

"And now he wants to get my attention," said Sherlock. "He started with sending Jeff Hope after me. He doesn't want me dead. It was an intellectual exercise. He's testing me, seeing if I'm up to scratch...will there be more attacks?"

John pursed his lips.

"Right. I understand. But John, if he does something that could put anyone in danger, you must speak up. Promise me."

"I was already planning on that," said John.

Sherlock nodded. "Good." Sherlock picked up his fortune cookie and cracked it open. He quickly blushed and looked at John, crumpling up the tiny slip of paper.

"What's it say?" John asked. Sherlock had done that the first time too.

"Nothing. Just...vague rubbish.* What's yours say, then?"

John smiled and said, without even opening his cookie, "There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before."

"It does not," challenged Sherlock.

John handed him the cookie. "Read it and weep."

Sherlock broke the cookie and read the fortune, then sighed in defeat. "Alright, I concede. You are from the future."

"Ha!" John munched on a piece of his cookie in triumph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sherlock's cookie said, "Look out for new faces in your life: your true love is near!" ;P


	9. The Universe Is Rarely So Lazy

"Home sweet home," John groaned as they finally stumbled into 221B at around 1:30 AM. After all the tearing around London, the army doctor was beat and longing for slumberland. He could tell Sherlock was exhausted too, try as the detective might to fight his transport's needs.

John flexed his back muscles after he'd removed his coat and heard his spinal bones popping, releasing tension. "Cor, I'm tired. Can't wait to fall into bed and sleep till-"

Then John realized he'd never retrieved his things from his dreary bedsit across town. No pillows, no sheets, no extra clothes, not even his toothbrush. "Oh no."

"What?" Sherlock asked.

John sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. "All my belongings, they're still at my old place. In all the excitement, I wasn't even thinking about them."

"You can get them later," Sherlock shrugged.

"Yeah, but my bed upstairs doesn't even have any dressings on it or anything."

"Well, you could kip on the couch," said Sherlock. "But I'm guessing that wouldn't be very comfortable for your back or shoulder."

John shook his head.

"Well you could-" Sherlock hesitated. He pursed his lips bashfully.

John looked at him. "What?"

"Well, obviously it wouldn't be a permanent arrangement, and understand that I am not propositioning you in any way-"

"Yes, Sherlock, I'd be very grateful if you let me sleep in your bed," said John, smiling sleepily. "It wouldn't exactly be the first time I'd slept with you."

Sherlock blinked. "S-sorry?" he stammered.

"No, no, not like that!" said John quickly, the tips of his ears burning. "A couple of times, for cases, when we stayed somewhere, we had to share a bed because the inn or whatever only had single rooms available."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Yes, well then. Obviously not new territory for you."

They were awkwardly silent for a moment.

"Right then," said John. "Um, I don't have any pajamas with me. Is it alright if I just sleep in my boxers?"

"I don't care," said Sherlock quickly.

"Right. Good. Then I'll just-"

"Yes, I'm right behind you. Just need to brush my teeth and change."

"Okay." John turned and went down the hall into Sherlock's room. Sherlock followed him and turned into the bathroom.

John sighed as he shed his shoes, socks, jumper, button up shirt, and jeans, leaving him in just his underthings. Thank God the flat was warm enough to fight this chilly January night. He slid into the side of the bed that Sherlock didn't sleep on. Mmm. The sheets smelled like Sherlock, John thought longingly.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, dressed in his ratty tee shirt and flimsy pajama bottoms. He looked comfy and homey and John wanted nothing more than to give him a good cuddle.

Sherlock climbed in on his side, leaving a respectful amount of space between them. Good thing Sherlock slept in a king size. Sherlock turned to him and said, "Um...thank you. For all your help today."

John smiled softly. "Thank you. For trusting me."

Sherlock smiled shyly back. "Good night," he said.

"Good night," John replied.

John watched his friend's eyelids flutter closed, and soon, his did the same, and he was fast asleep.

And for the first time in a very long time (since getting married), John had a peaceful, dreamless night.

* * *

John opened his eyes several hours later to find that the morning sun was streaming in through the window, and Sherlock was lying next to him, dead to the world.

John watched his pretty sleeping face for a moment, wishing for all the world he could stroke those gorgeous wild curls or drop a light kiss on his temple or gather up the consulting detective in his arms and spend the rest of the morning holding him. But John knew that was quite impossible. So, as quietly as he could, John got out of the warm, comfortable bed, put on his clothes from yesterday, and let himself out.

"Oh, good morning, Doctor!" said Mrs. Hudson cheerily, meeting him at the base of the stairs. "I've just had a copy of the key to your apartment made for you." She handed it to him.

"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that was so thoughtful of you," said John, slipping it into his pocket. "Oh, by the way, feel free to call me John."

"John, then. Aren't those the same clothes you were wearing yesterday? If you don't mind me asking." Mrs. Hudson's smile had a mischievous tilt to it. John didn't have to wonder what she thought he and Sherlock were getting up to last night. Well, she wasn't completely wrong - they _had_ slept together.

"Yeah, all my clothes and things are still at my other place. I was just headed out to get them," John explained.

"Oh, well of course, dear. I'll just let you get to it. Let me know if you need anything - within reason. I'm your landlady,  _not_ your housekeeper." She smiled and went back inside her own flat. "Toodle-oo."

"Bye, Mrs. H," chuckled John as he went out into the cool morning air.

John went across town long enough to pack up his few possessions and then speak with his landlord, who was happy to let him out of his lease - his neighbors had been complaining about John yelling in his sleep when he had nightmares. Not that that was a problem anymore, but John was just glad to be out of there.

Sherlock was laid out on the couch in Deep Contemplation when John came back an hour later. "Get your things?" the genius asked nonchalantly.

"Right here," said John, holding up his little case. "Mrs. Hudson looked downright horrified that this was all I had...thank you again, by the way."

"It was no problem," said Sherlock airily.

"What are you thinking about?" John asked, setting his case down and sitting in his chair.

Sherlock sighed and sat up. "To be perfectly honest...you."

"Me?"

"Well you are a time traveler from the future. Either that or you haven't moved at all, but instead had a vision of the coming four years of our life. That merits some consideration, don't you think?"

John sighed. "Yeah, I suppose."

Sherlock rubbed his hands frantically through his messy curls, tangling them even more hopelessly. "Alright. Can you reconstruct for me the _exact_ events that you experienced before meeting Mike Stamford in the park? Before your...rewind?"

John blinked. He couldn't tell him that! How could he possibly explain what had happened? About Magnussen and Mary and Sherlock leaving him forever and ever?

"On a purely need-to-know basis, of course," said Sherlock, noting John's discomfort.

John swallowed. "Well, ah..." He wrung his hands slightly. "I was on a runway at a airport. A friend of mine was going away. Some covert operation in Minsk, I think."

"This friend," said Sherlock. "Is it the one you told me about? The one you're in love with?"

John sighed despondently. "Yes. This... _friend_ said they'd be back in six months, but...but I think..." John choked, feeling the tears he'd pushed down on the tarmac threatening to rise up again. "I think they were lying, to spare my feelings. I don't think they were ever coming back at all. And I didn't even..." John let out a tiny squeak of sorrow. "I didn't even tell them I love them."

Sherlock looked at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

John nodded, slumping in his chair.

"Well," said Sherlock, standing up. "I'm not quite sure what's happened to you, whether you saw the future or really were sent back in time. But the why is perfectly obvious. Now, I'm not religious or spiritual in any way, don't believe in the powers that be or what have you. But some force has given you a second chance, to be with the person you truly love. So you were sent back to the one point in time that changed your future forever - the day you met Mike Stamford in the park, which led you to me. As for my part in all this, it's painfully apparent."

John gasped softly. _Oh no. He knows. Of course he knows, he's a genius. He'll want nothing to do with me now!_

"Knowing me somehow led you to your beloved. Someone we met on a case, am I correct?" Sherlock said, looking at John sharply.

_The dumbest genius in the world._

John exhaled in relief. "Something like that, yeah."

"Right. Then you mustn't make the same mistakes this time, John. I'll help you in anyway I can, but obviously you have the advantage. Meanwhile, we can work together, like we did in the alternate timeline. Having your foreknowledge will be of great assistance to us. Especially in solving this 'Moriarty' conundrum."

John nodded. "I'll help you in any way I can."

"Good," said Sherlock. He stood up. "I'm off to have a shower before we go down to meet Lestrade. Would you make us some tea?"

"Yeah, 'course," John replied.

Sherlock left the room, leaving John with a lot to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, guys. I took a break for Thanksgiving, then I tried to write up this chapter but my computer freaked and lost all my work. You know how it is. Anyway, I'm back, with frequent updates. (I'm hoping to have it done before January 1st, because that's when Sherlock comes back on.) Thanks for your patience, and keep those comments a-rollin' in! ~Catie


	10. Me And The Madman

Life went on at Baker Street for the next couple days, as it had before. However, it was nicer this time because John already was at home there - with Sherlock. Since they were already friends, John could skip the awkward, "getting to know you", tiptoeing about phase of living with someone.

Several days had passed and John realized that the proverbial cupboard of 221B was getting bare. "Sherlock, I'm going out," said John, putting on his coat. "Making a run to Tescos. Need anything?"

"Petri dishes," said Sherlock, looking up from his book. "They're for an experiment."

"This isn't the thing with the eyes, is it?"

"No, no, finished with that one. Don't worry, I disposed of the leftovers."

"Thank God for small miracles," teased John. "Alright. I'll see if they have them. I'll be back in...oh shit." John sighed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"I just remembered...the bloody chip-and-PIN machine."

"What chip-and-PIN machine?"

"Oh, when I went grocery shopping the first time after moving in here, the ruddy thing wouldn't take my card. Because...I'm broke." John mentally cursed his past self for being such a spendthrift. "Then I got into a row with it."

"You-" Sherlock blinked at him. "You got into a row with a machine?"

"Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse," John admitted. "I hate to ask, but have you got cash?"

"Take my card," said Sherlock, nodding to where his wallet was sitting in the kitchen.

John may have imagined it, but he thought he caught a glimpse of a soft, captivated smile on the detective's face. Almost...John dared to think... _besotted_. Then Sherlock quickly dropped his gaze to his book, and John couldn't be sure.

_No. I definitely imagined that. Did he look at me that way before? No. No way. Definitely imagining things._

Whether or not John had seen the adoring look or not, his stomach was active with butterflies again.  _Bloody hell. Twitterpated as a preteen because of one instant of eye contact. God help me, I'm in trouble._

With Sherlock's debit in his pocket, John hurried out, hoping the most observant man in the world didn't notice the fervent blush that bloomed on his cheeks.

* * *

"Sherlock? I'm back. They didn't have Petri- _WHOA, JESUS!_ " John exclaimed, jumping back in surprise.

Sherlock came barreling backward out of the kitchen into the sitting room, a man in a turban and a long striped robe pursuing him with a sword. "Sherlock, what the hell?!" John shouted.

"It's for a case, not now!" Sherlock called back, falling back onto the couch and nearly getting cleaved in two. He pushed the sword wielding man away hard with his feet.

John watched in the doorway, mouth hanging open, as Sherlock continued to grapple with the crazed sword swinger, making a mess of their living space. Amazingly, though totally unarmed, Sherlock managed to win the duel. The fight ended with the man in the turban taking a wide swing that would have sliced Sherlock's head clean off had the detective not ducked. Sherlock shouted and pointed behind the man, who then turned to look behind him. Sherlock punched him hard in the face, knocking him out. The sword swinger slumped unconscious in Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock laughed scoffingly and picked up the man's sword. "Oldest trick in the book. Honestly, I do hope they send me a _bit_ more of a challenge next time."

 _Damn, that was...kinda hot._  John blinked. "What the hell was that about?" he asked.

"Long story. The Jaria diamond case. This should send the appropriate message." Sherlock waved the sword about a bit. "I'm keeping this."

John just stood there, dumbfounded.

"Well, are you going to stand there all day attracting flies or are you going to help me with the body?" Sherlock said, shutting John's agape mouth with a finger under his jaw.

"Uh...yeah. Just...let me...put these down," said John, ambling into the kitchen. He noticed a new, yet familiar, scrape on the kitchen table, which he now realized had been from the man's sword when he'd had Sherlock pinned down to it. "So _that's_ where that scratch came from! Why didn't you tell me about this the first time?"

"I didn't?" said Sherlock. "Hm. Must have had my reasons. Get the feet?"

"Huh? Oh yeah." John came over and helped Sherlock hoist the man up. "I know why you didn't tell me. It's your 'I'm so cool and mysterious' schtick. Drama queen, that's what you are. Always have been, always will be." He was pretending to be annoyed, but he was really just teasing Sherlock.

"I-!" Sherlock glared at him as they carefully waddled toward the stairs with their burden. "I am not a drama queen!" he declared imperiously.

"Oh yes you are!" John barked a laugh as they descended.

Mrs. Hudson opened her door. "Boys, what's all the-oh my!" she gasped, her eyes going wide at the sight of the knocked out man.

"Don't mind us, Mrs. H.," grunted John as they made their way outside. "Just another day in the life of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Drama Queen."

Once they'd sent the unconscious man away in a taxi cab, Sherlock informed him as they were climbing back up to their flat, "Oh, by the way, old university acquaintance sent me an email. He's a banker. Has a case for us."

"Sebastian Wilkes, yeah?" said John.

"Right," said Sherlock. "Are you interested in joining me?"

John grinned. "Wouldn't miss this for the world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, rewatch that "take my card" scene. Sherlock is making major heart eyes at John. He is totally infatuated with Dr. John H. Watson, the handsome army captain. Benedict looks like a schoolgirl with her first crush. It's so adorable!!!!
> 
> I realized, looking over previous chapters, that I sort of repeated some scenes in chapter 9 and had to delete those bits. See, this is why I shouldn't take breaks. Also, wouldn't want to leave you lovely folk hanging. :P Can I haz comments? Lol ~Catie


	11. Hatman And Robin

"Sherlock Holmes," said Sebastian Wilkes with a grin when he finally decided to grace the detective and the doctor with his presence in his office.

"Sebastian," said Sherlock cordially, clasping his hand.

"Howdy, buddy, how long's it's been, eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?" said Wilkes, like he and Sherlock were old bosom buddies. Which John knew perfectly well they weren't. Wilkes had fake hair, a fake manner, and a fake life.

"This is my friend, John Watson," said Sherlock, indicating to his helpmate.

"Friend?" said Wilkes, smiling at John, the little glint in his eye telling the doctor exactly how good of "friends" he thought John and Sherlock might be.

"That's right," John  just replied confidently, firmly shaking his hand. "How'd you do?"

"Fine, thank you," said Wilkes, sitting behind his desk. "Well, grab a pew. D'you need anything? Coffee, water?" he offered.

Sherlock and John politely turned him down. "So, you're doing well," said Sherlock. "You've been abroad a lot."

"Well, so?" shrugged Wilkes.

"Flying all the way around the world twice in a month?"

Wilkes laughed scoffingly. "Right. You're doing that thing." He looked at John. "We were at uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick," said Sherlock.

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story," Wilkes continued, as if Sherlock hadn't even spoken.

"I know, I've seen him do it," said John.

"Put the wind up everybody," Wilkes guffawed. "We hated him. You'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night."

"I simply observed," said Sherlock quietly.

John noticed Sherlock had cast his eyes down at his lap. Hurt, the doctor realized. Shame. John blinked. He'd never thought Sherlock was affected by this stuff. Again, John was reminded that Sherlock was as human as anyone. He wanted to touch Sherlock's hand, let him know he wasn't alone, wasn't hated by _everyone_. God, what else had he missed the first time through?

"Go on, enlighten me," smirked Wilkes. "Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world? You're quite right. How could you tell?" Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but Wilkes continued rambling on. "You're gonna tell me there was, um, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan."

"No, I-"

"Maybe it was the mud on my shoes."

Sherlock iced him with a Look. "I was just chatting with your secretary outside," he said flatly. "She told me."

John bit back a smile.

Wilkes burst into laughter and clapped his hands like Sherlock was a trained monkey who'd just done a trick. Sherlock forced a smile at the pompous arsehole. Then Wilkes turned serious and said, "I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break-in."

* * *

Wilkes led them to the scene of the caper. "Sir William's office, the bank's former chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night."

"But nothing was taken," said John.

Wilkes looked over his shoulder at him curiously. "You're right. How did you know?"

"Sherlock here's not the only one with clever tricks," said John with a wink at the genius. Sherlock smiled a tiny bit, looking at the floor. _God, he's the most adorable thing_ , John couldn't help but think. "If there'd been a real robbery, the police would've been informed, and it would have been in the paps. Am I wrong?"

"No, you're not," admitted Wilkes. "Well, Sherlock, I can see why you like this one." He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, Sherlock suddenly blushing brightly. John smiled.

"Doctor Watson is right, nothing was stolen," continued Wilkes, letting them into the office. "Just left a little message."

Sir William's portrait was hanging on the wall behind the desk. A yellow line, like a blindfold almost, had been spray-painted over the man's eyes. To the left of the painting, an additional design had been graffitied to the wall.

Wilkes showed them the CCTV recording on his computer. "Sixty seconds apart," he said, showing the stills taken before and after the deed had been done. The one before was without the vandalism; the one after, with. "So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, and left within a minute."

"How many ways into that office?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, that's where this gets really interesting."

At the security desk, Wilkes pulled up schematics of the building. "Every door that opens in this bank, it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet."

"That door didn't open last night," Sherlock guessed.

Wilkes sighed. "There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you. Five figures." He pulled a check out of the inside of his suit jacket. "This is an advance. Tell me how he got in. There's a bigger one on its way." He held out the slip to Sherlock.

"I don't need an incentive, Sebastian," said Sherlock haughtily, then strode away.

"He's, uh-" John cleared his throat. "He's kidding you, obviously. Sh-shall I look after that for him?" He held out his hand to take the check from Wilkes. "Thanks."

Sherlock nabbed pictures of the graffiti, scoured every inch of Sir William's office, then inspected it from every angle outside in the trading floor. John watched him with mild amusement as his curly head popped up over and over again from between the desks, unaware of the bewildered glances he was drawing from the employees. _It's like the world's cutest game of Whack-A-Mole_ , John thought with a smile.

Finally, Sherlock approached him, a slip of paper - a placard - in his hand. "Edward Van Coon, Hong Kong Head Desk," he said, showing John the placard. "Well? Am I on the right track?"

John grinned. "You're not the world's only consulting detective for nothing."

Sherlock smirked. "Good. Let's get out of here."

As they were leaving, John said to Sherlock, "'Two trips around the world this month.' You didn't ask his secretary, you said that just to irritate him."

"Well, can you blame me?" Sherlock snorted.

"Not at all. The guy's a huge prick," said John. "Granted, a prick who's paying us five figures, but still, a prick nevertheless." He smiled at Sherlock. "So, go on, then, genius. Impress a boy - how'd you know about the trips?"

Sherlock smiled. "It was his watch. The time was correct but the date was wrong. Set for two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it. It was the new Breitling, which only just came out this past month, so it could have only been recently."

John smiled softly up at him. "Brilliant," he said.

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted in surprise at the compliment. He turned a light shade of pink.

_Sodding hell, that's lovely. I must do that more often, if it causes that kind of reaction._

Sherlock cast him the side eye. "He thinks you and I are...courting."

"Yeah," sighed John. "Well, that's just per usual, when it comes to you and me."

Sherlock chuckled, leading the way to the big glass front doors. "Well, come on. Need to investigate this Van Coon."

John grinned up at him, following faithfully. "The game is on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aah! John! You softie! <3 Oh, and Sherlock is fighting every instinct not to swoon over John.
> 
> Technically, TBB took place in like, March of 2010, after John and Sherlock had been living together for a couple months, but I decided to speed up the timeline a bit, for the purposes of our story.
> 
> So, this was finals week for me (I'm a sophomore in college), and I only have one left, math, today. Yesterday I had my psychology final and vocal juries (which is singing pieces from my repertoire for a panel of music teachers), and the day before that was my history of theatre final (yes, I'm a theatre major, but only because my tiny two year school doesn't offer film). So after today, I'm done with the semester :D
> 
> Fun fact, comments = faster updates ;) Wait, is that extortion? -Catie


	12. I'm A Consulting Detective. Only One In The World.

When the taxi pulled up to Eddie Van Coon's flat, John already knew what they'd find. "Sherlock," said John as Sherlock prepared to buzz Van Coon's neighbor to trick her into letting them in. "I hate to tell you this. But Van Coon's...dead."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"Yeah. His body's up there, in his apartment."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Damn. Wanted to question him. Well...might as well get in, do some sweeping before we call the police." _Buzzzzz._

" _Hello?_ " came a pleasant female voice from the intercom.

"Hi! I live in the flat just below you, I don't think we've met," said Sherlock cheerfully.

" _No, well, uh, I've just moved in_."

"Actually, I've just locked my keys in my flat," Sherlock continued to lie, biting his lip.

" _D'you want me to buzz you in?_ "

"Yeah. And can I use your balcony?"

" _...what?_ "

* * *

Sherlock opened the door for John to come in, having broken in by swinging down from the neighbor's balcony to Van Coon's. "You're a ruddy spider monkey, you know that?" John muttered, coming inside.

"Where's the body?" Sherlock said.

"Bedroom. Over there," said John, pointing.

As Sherlock strode off to investigate, John spied a stack of books on Van Coon's coffee table. He quietly slipped one into his jacket, in a large inside pocket, and followed after the detective.

Sherlock was looking over the body, laid out on the bed. "Gun shot wound, right side of the head. Suicide?" he said, half to John, half to himself. "No, Van Coon was obviously left handed." He went to look in the bathroom, where Van Coon's suitcase was lying. "Need to inspect this flat further, but can't do it till the police are here. John?"

"Already calling them," said John, his phone to his ear.

Fifteen minutes later, the police had arrived, and Sherlock was intricately scouring the crime scene. "Been away three days, judging by the laundry," Sherlock deduced, expertly combing through the travel bag with latex gloved hands. "Look at the case, there was something tightly packed inside it."

 _Must've been the hairpin_ , thought John.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "What? You know what it was?" he said softly, as to not attract the attention of the police.

John pursed his lips.

"Right. Never mind. I'll find out eventually," said Sherlock, standing up. "Those symbols at the bank. The graffiti," he continued, coming over to the body. "Why were they put there? No, don't answer that either, I'm only thinking out loud. They're some sort of code, obviously."

"Right," said John.

"Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use email?"

John watched as Sherlock finally came to the dead man's mouth. He carefully pried open his jaw and pulled out a tiny, black, origami flower. "He was being threatened," Sherlock concluded, sealing it in an evidence bag.

The man in charge came in, talking to the other officers. "Ah, Sergeant, we haven't met," said Sherlock, offering his hand to shake.

"Yeah, I know who you are, and I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence," said Dimmock snottily with his hands on his hips, refusing to shake, and John clenched his jaw a bit. Honestly, he knew Sherlock could be difficult to get along with, but this man didn't even _know_ Sherlock and already he was treating him like shit.

Sherlock frowned slightly at the snub. He handed Dimmock the evidence bag. "I've phoned Lestrade, is he on his way?"

"He's busy. _I'm_ in charge. And it's not 'Sergeant', it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock." As they walked out into the main living area, Dimmock said, "We're obviously looking at a suicide."

"Maybe," said John, shrugging. He was baiting Sherlock again, but he didn't care. He wanted his detective to stick it to this rude little prat.

Dimmock gave him a "what are you, stupid?" look. "Well, it's the only explanation, given all the facts."

"Wrong," said Sherlock sharply. "It's one _possible_ explanation of _some_ of the facts. You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

_That's right, Sherlock, give it to him._

"Like?" said Dimmock incredulously.

"The wound was on the right side of the head."

"And?"

"Van Coon was left handed." Sherlock twisted about, demonstrating how impossible it would have been for Van Coon to shoot himself on the right side with his left hand. "Requires a bit of contortion."

"Left handed?" Dimmock said skeptically.

"Oh, I'm amazed you didn't notice. All you have to do is look around this flat," Sherlock sighed. "Coffee table on the left-hand side, coffee mug handle pointing to the _left_. Power sockets: habitually used the ones on the _left_. Pen and paper on the _left_ -hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his _left_. D'you want me to go on?"

"Oh, please do," grinned John, enjoying this immensely, and knowing Sherlock was too.

"Oh, I might as well, I'm almost at the bottom of the list. There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left. It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. _Only_ explanation of _all_ the facts."

 _Damn_ , thought John. _Brainy really is the new sexy._

"But the gun. Why..." said Dimmock, confused.

"He was waiting for the killer," said Sherlock. "He'd been threatened."

Dimmock's eyebrows rose. " _What?_ "

"Today at the bank, sort of a warning," John explained.

"He fired a shot when his attacker came in," said Sherlock, putting on his coat, scarf, and gloves. 

"And the bullet?"

"Went through the open window."

"Oh, come on! What are the chances of that?!" Dimmock said in disbelief.

"Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it."

"But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?" Dimmock said.

"Good!" said Sherlock. "You're finally asking the right questions." He turned and went out the door.

John smiled sarcastically at Dimmock, then followed his friend out.

* * *

Sherlock and John crashed the restaurant where that prick Sebastian Wilkes was having lunch with his banking buddies. "It was a threat," said Sherlock, walking up to the table. "That's what the graffiti meant."

Wilkes looked surprised, embarrassed at Sherlock's appearance. "I'm kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?"

"I don't think this can wait. Sorry, Sebastian," said Sherlock, sounding not that sorry at all. "One of your traders – someone who worked in your office – was _killed_."

"What?"

"Van Coon," John supplied. "The police are at his flat."

"Killed?" Wilkes couldn't believe it.

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion," said Sherlock in a blasé fashion to Wilkes's lunch pals, who were looking disturbed. "Still wanna make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?"

Wilkes reluctantly followed them to commune about the case in the bathroom. "Harrow, Oxford... very bright guy. Worked in Asia for a while, so..."

"You gave him the Hong Kong accounts," John inferred.

"Lost five mil in a single morning, made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had," Wilkes commented.

"Do you know who would want to kill him?" Sherlock asked.

Wilkes shrugged. "We all make enemies."

"You don't all end up with a bullet through your temple," John grunted.

Wilkes's mobile beeped. "Not usually. Excuse me." Wilkes checked his phone. "It's my chairman. The police have been on to him. Apparently they're telling him it was a suicide." He looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"Well they've got it _wrong_ , Sebastian," Sherlock insisted. "He was murdered."

"Well, I'm afraid they don't see it like that."

"Seb-"

"...and neither does my boss," Wilkes spoke over him. "I hired you to do a job. Don't get side-tracked." With that, he sauntered out.

John scoffed once he'd gone. "I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards," he said sarcastically, trying to cheer Sherlock up.

Sherlock just bit his lip, lost in thought.


	13. Narrow It Down

"I said, "Could you pass me a pen?" said Sherlock as he walked through the door the next afternoon after bringing home lunch from Speedy's.

John chuckled and discarded his coat on his chair, tossing him the pen. Sherlock caught it without even looking. "Doing that thing where you talk to me when I'm not here, eh?"

Sherlock blinked at him. "I don't do that."

"Yeah you do. All the time when we lived together. It's like you don't even know I'm gone."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Um. Anyway. Have a look." He nodded at John's computer, sitting on his desk.

John came over, setting a boxed lunch in front of Sherlock. "Eat," he ordered.

Sherlock scowled at his back but reluctantly opened the box.

John read the article about the second murder victim, Brian Lukis. "The intruder who can walk through walls," he read.

"Happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his flat; doors locked, windows bolted from the inside – exactly the same as Van Coon. He's killed another one."

John sighed. "Christ, I feel responsible. I knew this guy was going to die too. Shouldn't I be doing something to stop these people?"

"You _are_ , John, by helping me. Realistically, could you have really saved him? Anymore than you could've saved Jennifer Wilson? Even if you had known exactly when and where he was going to be killed,  _and_ could have been there in time to intervene, you might only have been putting yourself in danger. I need your help, John."

John sighed. "I know, I know, you're right. Still. I feel a bit like Clark Kent hiding behind his desk at the _Daily Planet_ instead of going out and stopping the meteor from hitting Metropolis."

"'Clark Kent'? 'Daily Planet'? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Pop culture reference. It's not important," said John.

Sherlock stood up. "Come on, John. Need to talk to that idiot Dimmock and make him face the truth, so we can solve this case before anyone else gets hurt."

"Ah, ah, ah," said John, pointing to Sherlock's barely touched lunch. "You eat first."

Sherlock grumbled, sitting back down. "Who do you think you are, my mother?"

John made a face. " _God_ no."

* * *

"Brian Lukis, freelance journalist. Murdered in his flat. Doors locked from the inside," said Sherlock to Dimmock later on once they were down at New Scotland Yard, showing him the article from John's laptop.

"You've gotta admit, it's similar. Both men killed by someone who can 'walk through solid walls'," John added.

"Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another city suicide?"

Dimmock looked at his desk stubbornly, refusing to admit the detective may be right.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "You have seen the ballistics report, I suppose?" Dimmock nodded. "And the shot that killed him: was it fired from his own gun?" Sherlock continued.

Dimmock glared at him. "No."

"No," Sherlock repeated. "So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel."

Dimmock looked at John, as if looking for help, but John just shrugged.

Sherlock leaned over and put his hands on Dimmock's desk. "I've just handed you a murder enquiry," he said in a low tone of voice.

Dimmock continued to stare at him, disgruntled.

"Five minutes in his flat," Sherlock demanded.

* * *

Dimmock relented and allowed to see Lukis's flat. His rooms were a mess, obviously had been ransacked. And just like the bank office and Van Coon's apartment, there was an open window. "Four floors up. That's why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door and bolt it shut; think they're impregnable," Sherlock explained. "They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in."

"I don't understand," said Dimmock.

"You're dealing with a killer who can climb," Sherlock said, raising himself up on a ledge to inspect another window in the apartment.

"What are you doing?" Dimmock asked, bewildered.

"He clings to the walls like an insect." Sherlock opened the window's latch with a creak. "That's how he got in."

"What?!"

"Climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight."

"You're not serious! Like _Spiderman_?"

"He scaled six floors of a Docklands apartment building, jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon."

"Oh, hold on-"

"And of course that's how he got into the bank. He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace," Sherlock explained.

Behind Dimmock, John was nodded, encouraging him on.

"We have to find out what connects these two men," said Sherlock. He looked around. Then, in a stack of books, Sherlock picked up a thick red hardback and opened it. He grinned to himself and snapped it shut, heading out.

* * *

John and Sherlock caught a cab to the West Kensington Library. "Date stamped on the book is the same day that he died," Sherlock muttered to himself, walking through the stack to where the book's call number would have placed it in the library. 

Behind him, knowing exactly what he was looking for, John moved a couple of volumes aside in one shelf to find that designs just like the ones spray painted at the bank for Van Coon to find had been left for Lukis too. "Sherlock."

Back at 221B, Sherlock and John were looking over their findings so far. "So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon; Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in. Hours later, he dies," Sherlock said.

"The killer finds Lukis at the library; he writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen; Lukis goes home..." John said.

"Late that night, he dies too," Sherlock finished. "We need to know what the symbols mean. They're cyphers, somehow. Van Coon knew the code, Lukis did too. All we have to do is crack it..."

"Well, you're not exactly Alan Turing, but you'll get it, Sherlock," said John, crossing his arms.

"Who's Alan Turing?"

John sighed. "Never mind."

* * *

They went to the National Gallery to find Sherlock's street artist associate, Raz. He had painted what looked like a likeness of Hitler with a pig nose on one of the back doors of the Gallery. "Part of a new exhibition," he said with a grin. "Call it... _Urban Bloodlust Frenzy_ ," he chuckled.

John looked up at it. "Catchy," he said in disinterest.

"I've got two minutes before a community support officer comes 'round that corner," Raz said, tagging his name underneath. "Can we do this while I'm workin'?"

Sherlock showed Raz his phone, photos of the graffitis. "Know the author?"

Raz tossed John his spray paint can, which John promptly tossed in Raz's bag. He wasn't getting an ASBO again. "Recognize the paint," said Raz, studying the symbols. "It's like Michigan, hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."

"What about the symbols, do you recognize them?" Sherlock asked.

"Not even sure it's a proper language," shrugged Raz.

"Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them," said Sherlock seriously.

"What, and this is all you've got to go on?" scoffed Raz. "It's hardly much, now, is it?"

"Are you gonna help us or not?"

Raz sighed. "I'll ask around."

"Somebody must know something about it," Sherlock said.

"Oi!" A community support officer shouted at them from the end of the alley, and the three men made a run for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I skipped the bit with Sarah. I like her, but she isn't really needed, is she? I hated cutting out the bit with the pronoun game and everything and Sherlock being hella jelly, though. :( And haha, yes! An Imitation Game reference.


	14. Once You've Eliminated The Impossible...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of sped through a lot of the story in this chapter. TBB is pretty case heavy. And yay, Soo Lin survived!!!!
> 
> Sorry it's been a while since I updated. I'm back home now, and I don't have Internet here.

“Eddie Van Coon, Brian Lukis, and the symbols. What’s tying them all together?” Sherlock muttered to himself furiously as he hailed them a cab.

“Ah, Chinatown, please,” John told the cabbie.

Sherlock looked at him strangely. “Why are we going there?”

“Just…there’s something I need to show you.”

* * *

“You want lucky cat?” asked the shop owner as the two men came in. “Your wife, I think she will like.”

 _Mary would hate a lucky cat, actually_ , thought John as he smiled politely. He picked up a small china tea cup and turned it over. A white tag was stuck to the bottom, with markings identical to the graffiti in red ink.

“Sherlock, look,” said John.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder. “Ahhh…”

“So they’re numbers, then,” said Sherlock as they were leaving. “The number 15. And the banker’s ‘blindfold’, it was a one. But what does that have to do with anything?” He thought hard. “Both men went to Asia frequently…ah!” He gasped. “Of course! Smugglers!”

John smiled.

“But you wouldn’t need to kill them, as long as they were doing their jobs…unless…” Sherlock smiled slowly. “Gotcha. One of them took something that didn’t belong to them.” He squinted at something across the street – a damp phone book, sitting in a plastic bag on the stoop of a flat. “Hey-”

“N-no, just-” John grabbed his arm. “Trust me, you don’t wanna go in _there_.”

“What, why?”

“Just don’t,” said John, pulling him away.

“But-”

“Sherlock, just…trust me. Come on, we’re going to the National Antiquities Museum.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Sherlock harrumphed, but for once, followed _him_.

* * *

At the museum, John and Sherlock spoke to Andy, one of the attendees at the NAM about Soo Lin Yao, the (former) inhabitant of the apartment that Sherlock had wanted to inspect. When seeing her locker downstairs, they found a statue they had been spray painted with the 15 and 1.

Then Raz met back up with them to show them some more graffiti at an indoor skate park, done with the same paint as the cyphers. Outside by the railroad tracks, Sherlock discovered the discarded aerosol can, and John refound the wall covered with even more numbers, which he took a picture of.

But when John brought Sherlock to see it, the entire wall had been painted over in black. “Somebody doesn’t want me to see it,” said Sherlock. Then without warning, Sherlock grabbed John by the sides of his head. “John, concentrate! I need to you to concentrate. Close your eyes.”

 _Oh fuck, he’s touching me. Gah, get a grip, Watson._ “Sherlock-”

Sherlock took hold of him and slowly spun him in a circle. “I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?”

“Sherlock, I-”

“Can you remember it?”

“Look, Sherlock-”

“Can you remember the pattern?”

“Yes!”

“How much can you remember it?”

“Well, don’t worry!”

“Because the average human memory on visual matters is only 62% accurate!”

“Yeah, well don’t worry, I remember all of it.”

“ _Really?_ ”

“Yes, future boy, remember?!”

“But it’s been four years since this case, you might not remember as much as you think.”

“Well even I didn’t, I got a photo!” John (regrettably) broke out of the detective’s embrace to pull out his phone and show him.

“Oh,” said Sherlock, blinking. “Well. Capital.” Sherlock took the phone and looked over the numbers.

* * *

After a lot of pondering, Sherlock realized he wouldn't be able to solve the cypher without Soo Lin Yao. John made sure he had his gun on him this time when visiting the museum. "Two men who traveled back from China were murdered," Sherlock said to Andy. "And their killer left them messages in Hangzhou numerals."

"Soo Lin Yao is in danger," John added. "That cypher, it was just the same pattern as the others. He means to kill her as well."

"Look, I've tried everywhere, friends, colleagues. I don't know where she's gone. I mean, she could be a thousand miles away."

John studied Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. _Come on, genius. Use that clever mind of yours..._

Sherlock was looking around, taking in every detail...and then his eyes landed on the right clue. "Tell me more about those teapots."

 _That's my boy_ , John thought, fighting a smirk.

"Th-the pots were her...obsession. They need urgent work," Andy answered, as they went over to the case where the clay pots were on display. "If they dry out, then the clay can start to crumble. Apparently you have to just keep making tea in them."

Sherlock squinted at the pots. "Yesterday only one of those pots were shining," he pointed out. "Now there are two."

* * *

Later that night, Sherlock and John found Soo Lin there, all alone, tending the pots. "You saw the cypher," she said, almost resigned to her fate. "Then you know he is coming for me."

"You've been clever to avoid him so far," Sherlock remarked.

Soo Lin looked at the pots on the table. "I had to finish...to finish this work. It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me."

"Who is he? Have you met him before?" Sherlock asked.

Soo Lin looked at him, then back at her knees. "When I was a girl, living back in China. I recognize his...'signature'."

"The cipher."

"Only he would do this. Zhi Zhu."

"'The Spider'," Sherlock translated.

Soo Lin reached down and pulled her shoe off just enough to show a tattoo on her ankle. A black flower. "You know this mark?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "It's the mark of a Tong. Ancient crime syndicate based in China."

Soo Lin nodded. "Every foot soldier bears the mark. Everyone who hauls for them."

"You were a smuggler," John said.

"I was fifteen. My parents were dead. I had no livelihood. No way of surviving day to day...except to work for the bosses."

"Who are they," Sherlock asked.

"They are called...the Black Lotus," Soo Lin answered. "By the time I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds' worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. But I managed to leave that life behind me...I came to England. They gave me a job here. Everything was good. A new life."

"Then he came looking for you," Sherlock filled in.

"Yes," Soo Lin choked with fear. "I had hoped after five years, maybe they would have forgotten me. But they never really let you leave. A small community like ours – they're never very far away. He came to my flat. He asked me to help him to track down something that was stolen."

John swallowed. He knew exactly what it was Zhi Zhu was seeking and where to find it. "And you've no idea what it was?" he said, trying to be casual.

Sherlock gave him a dubious look. He wasn't fooled.

"I refused to help," Soo Lin answered.

"And you knew him well," John baited her.

"Oh yes," Soo Lin answered bitterly. "He's my brother."

Soo Lin told them the tragic story of she and her brother's childhood woes, and how they came to join the Black Lotus. "My brother has become their puppet, in the power of the one they call Shan – the Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day I came to work and the cipher was waiting."

Sherlock slid Soo Lin a printout of the picture from John's phone. "Can you decipher these?"

Soo Lin looked them over. "These are numbers..."

"Yes, I know."

"Here...the line across the man's eyes – it's the Chinese number one."

"And this one is fifteen. But what's the code?"

"All the smugglers know it. It's based upon a book-"

But suddenly they were distracted by all the lights going out. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he rose up from his stool.

"He's here. Zhi Zhu," Soo Lin whispered. "He has found me."

John tugged urgently at Sherlock's coat sleeve before the detective could run off. "Sherlock, we have to get her out of here." He lowered his voice to a whisper. " _She doesn't make it_."

Sherlock nodded. "Can we sneak out the way we came? Through the grate?"

John thought for an instant, then nodded. "We have to hurry though."

"Okay. Come on," Sherlock whispered sharply, beckoning to them. "I'll call the police."

"Great idea," John muttered under his breath.


	15. You Jealous?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Protective!John, Dimmock gets told off, Soo Lin lives, Jealous!John. There's a lot I love about this chapter.

"How many murders is it gonna take before you start believing that this maniac's out there?" John demanded of Dimmock when the police arrived. Unfortunately, Zhi Zhu had escaped, scared away by the sirens. But Soo Lin had made it out alive, and that was what had mattered to John. After being unable to stop the deaths of Brian Lukis, Eddie Van Coon, Jennifer Wilson...John was relieved to have not been totally useless, for once.

"A young girl was nearly gunned down tonight," John continued. "That's three victims in three days. You're supposed to be finding him."

"Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers," Sherlock added on. "A gang called the Black Lotus operating here in London right under your nose."

"Can you prove that?" Dimmock asked. John was really getting pissed off with this guy.

Sherlock thought for a second, then his eyes flicked down to Soo Lin's shoe, thinking of the tattoo. "Yes. I can show you the proof tomorrow. At the morgue."

"The morgue?"

"Just trust me," Sherlock said.

Dimmock crossed his arms. "Why should I do that?"

"Because he's a Goddamn genius, you little git!" John finally snapped. "He's solved dozens of cases for you lot and no one ever just trusts that he knows what he's talking about! And just because you've got a stick up your arse about something, doesn't give you the right to consistently be rude to someone who's just trying to help you!"

Dimmock, Sherlock, Soo Lin, and several other bystanders were staring at John open-mouthed.

John's ears burned in embarrassment. "I...I'm sorry, I...I don't why I just..." He swallowed nervously. He dared a look at Sherlock.

Sherlock's gaze was locked onto him. His lips were partially parted, and his eyes were wide, shining. He was blushing bright red like a stop light.

He was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

"I'm sorry," John said to him quietly. Then he looked back at Dimmock. "I'm terribly sorry."

Sherlock tore his gaze away from John to look at the DI. "Bart's. Tomorrow. 12 o'clock."

"Yes," Dimmock agreed, nodding. "I'll be there."

The DI walked away, with his tail somewhat between his legs. Sherlock looked at Soo Lin. "Come on. Your flat's not safe. You'll stay with us."

"Sherlock," said John, catching his arm. "She's not safe in London. They'll find her in no time. She needs to get out of here. Look, call your brother, have him help her get out of the country, reach asylum."

"But we might need her for the case," Sherlock protested.

"Sherlock, she nearly died tonight," John said. Then he whispered, "She _did_ die my first time through. I couldn't save the others, but I knew I could change things this time. Look... _my person_ got shot by someone and almost left me - and it was my fault. I was supposed to care for them, but I left them alone for five minutes, and I found them with a bullet in their chest. I'm not letting anyone else die on my watch when I know I could save them."

Sherlock looked at him for a second. "Alright. I suppose, having you here...we don't need to put her in any more danger. I'll call Mycroft. I'll mention it was your suggestion, you seem to have some kind of hold over my brother."

John smiled and let him go. "Thank you," he murmured, staring up into his eyes.

"Well..." Sherlock swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed. "You did stand up for me, after all."

"About that, I am so-"

"Please don't say you're sorry," said Sherlock.

John stared at him. Sherlock stared back. John thought, perhaps, there was a 'thank you' in there.

John finally said, "Alright. I'm not sorry...still. It was unprofessional. It won't happen again."

Sherlock nodded once. He pulled out his phone, had a quick chat with Mycroft in French (John caught Soo Lin's and his own name in there a few times), and then hung up. "Myc's sending a car. We're to wait with her until then."

John looked over at Soo Lin, who was sitting in the open back of a police car, with a shawl wrapped around her, similar to how Sherlock and John had been for their first case. "Good," he said.

Sherlock and John stood in silence for a few moments, then Sherlock snorted. "I can't believe you called Dimmock a 'little git'."

John bit back a smile. "Well he is."

"Yes, but you don't just go around saying it."

"Oh please, you say whatever you want, usually."

"No, I mean  _you_ don't just go around saying what you want."

"Well..." John said slowly. "I spent years not saying what I wanted to say...I'm not staying quiet anymore."

Sherlock was looking at him strangely. That penetrating stare that made John feel as though Sherlock was peering into his entire soul, flooding him, filling John's every fiber with himself. John fought the urge to shiver.

"John..." Sherlock said softly. "You are the oddest person I've ever met."

John looked back at him. Then they burst into laughter at that, because they just didn't know what else to do.

* * *

They met Dimmock at the morgue the next day, as planned. John thought perhaps he should sit this one out, but Sherlock insisted he come along.

"People are gonna think I'm your hired muscle or..."

John trailed off.

Sherlock looked at him as he hailed a taxi. "Or what?"

 _Over protective boyfriend_ , John thought wincingly. Which he wasn't. Nor did he have any right to act like he was.

"Nothing," John said. "It's unimportant."

At Bart's, Dimmock was already there. He caught sight of John and somewhat deflated. "Afternoon," he mumbled to them. "So...what did you want to show me?"

* * *

"What are you thinking: pork or the pasta?"

Molly jumped in surprise. "Oh, it's you!"

John and Dimmock watched from across the canteen as Sherlock chatted Molly up. Sherlock was turning on all the charm, mysterious collar popped, disarming smile, complimenting her hair. Molly flushed under the attention, clearly infatuated with the man.

John found himself gritting his teeth and clenching his fists beneath his crossed arms. It was stupid to react this way; he knew, never in a million years would Sherlock, a gay man, ever be interested in Molly Hooper.

But still, to stand there and watch the beautiful, brilliant detective  _flirting_ with someone else...it tied John's stomach in knots. It was almost as bad as when Sherlock was fake-courting Janine just to get to Magnussen.

_It's just for a case, Watson. For God's sake, don't get your hackles up. It's not like he's your... **property** or something._

Sherlock turned to them when Molly wasn't looking and nodded.

In the morgue, Sherlock, having coaxed Molly into bringing out the bodies of Lukis and Van Coon, showed Dimmock the Black Lotus brands on their ankles. "So either these two men just happened to visit the same Chinese tattoo parlour or I'm telling the truth," Sherlock declared.

Dimmock nodded. "Yes, I see. You...you were right."

John blinked. Was Dimmock actually being...polite?

"What do you need?" the DI asked.

Sherlock's cupid bow lips formed around the word 'books', but John shook his head behind Dimmock.

"Ah...more time. I'm onto a lead right now, I'll let you know as soon as I have more information," Sherlock said. "John, let's go."

The two men headed out together. "Bye, Sherlock," said Molly longingly as they passed her. Sherlock didn't even look up.

John smiled grimly, even though he was chastising himself at the same time for being so petty.


End file.
